Weekend - By Christopher Pike Page 0,9

The snake swam in between them, divide and bite, its pointed head and tongue snapping at both of them. The old man was forgotten.

"What should we do?" Park cried.

"Don't panic."

"I'm already panicked!"

"Don't let it bite you."

Park backed up several paces, moving to his left to place the van between him and the serpent.

Unfortunately, the snake seemed to like the smell of him better. It slid beneath the rim of the flat tyre with its mouth open and hungry. Park knew intellectually that he should turn and run, but his upper-class, manicured body would not cooperate.It thought that the momentit turnedits back,it would get a huge chunk out of the back ofits calf. And maybeit was right. The snake seemed to keep its distance - six feet - as long as he didn't move.

"Are you trying to stare it down?" Sol asked, picking up a hefty rock and creeping closer. The snake, bent on Caucasian meat, was leaving its flank unprotected, or so it seemed.

"Where's your knife?"

"You can't kill a snake like this with a knife." With both hands, Sol raised the rock over his head. Still, their assailant paid him no heed.

"Why aren't you carrying a gun when we need one?"

Sol whipped down his stone with a force sufficient to crack the miserable road. But the snake had only been baiting him. This was Mexico; it wanted a Mexican. It was not in the rock's path, but rather, incredibly, was closing its teeth on the hem of Sol's faded blue jeans. Sol made the best possible move, which was to trounce its mid-section with his free leg. This caused the snake to lose its grip, and Sol scampered back, but he did so hastily and stumbled on an ill-placed rock. He ended up flat on his back.

Rearing up its slimy head and hissing with glee, the snake charged. Sol's heavy calloused feet wouldn't be armour enough. Park felt sick. Too late his friend was reaching for his knife when the snake made an unstoppable lunge at his exposed right ankle.

"Sol!" Park cried.

A gun exploded.

The snake tore into bloody halves.

Resetting the safety, Flynn slipped a small black pistol in his belt, covering it with the tail of his white silk shirt. Lying on the road, with his head twisted around, Sol asked, "Where did you learn to shoot like that?"

Flynn smiled the charming smile that made the girls sigh, and Park nauseous with jealousy. But he couldn't begrudge him this time. "I usually can't hit a Coke can at five feet," Flynn said.

Park regained the use of his legs and came over and helped Sol up. "That was close. Did he catch any flesh?"

Sol brushed off his T-shirt, and shook his head, his tough, external cool somewhat ruffled. Only Flynn seemed unshaken. Park couldn't believe the guy. Sol slapped Flynn's shoulder. "Thanks, man, I owe you one."

Flynn looked at his kill with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. Already, flies buzzed about the remains.

"That's okay; I just won't chip in for gas on the way home."

"Fair enough."

"And I owe you one," Park told Sol.

"Yeah. Say you fix me up with Angie for a couple of nights and we'll call it even."

Park laughed, realising he was still shaking. "Only if I get Lena."

"You don't know what you're asking," Sol said. "Lena's worse than a snake. She's got nails along with teeth."

"Do you always carry a gun?" Park asked Flynn. They knew little about him: he was from England, had his own apartment, no family, drove an old VW, played tennis, spoke seldom.

"Whenever I'm in a foreign country."

California was a foreign country to Flynn. Sol snapped, "It's none of your business."

"It's no problem," Flynn said smoothly. "I'd tell you more, but there's nothing to tell."

Park didn't believe him. His marksmanship hadn't been blind luck. He was a practiced shot. Park wondered what Flynn had practiced for.

This was weird. Here he is on a fun-and-games weekend outing, and two of his buddies are carrying deadly weapons. "I didn't mean to pry," Park said.

"No problem," Flynn repeated.

"Well, I guess the old man must have seen the snake coming and was trying - " Park paused, looked around. "Hey, where is that guy?"

"Over there." Sol pointed in the direction from which the man had come. He had already reached the bluff of the neighbouring hill, and was disappearing over the other side. He must have run. "Man, that cat can move," Sol said.

"Did you talk to him?" Flynn asked casually.

"Sol did. He only spoke Spanish."

"What did